


Grace

by ShadowsOffense



Series: Arlathan's din'anshiral AU [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Arlathan, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Headcanon, Original Character(s), Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8864098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowsOffense/pseuds/ShadowsOffense
Summary: Yes, this is just copy and paste for the series:
Ok, there is a lot of background stuff to read, written by other authors, if you want to try this series. It's really good, so by all means go for it. But don't start here. You will be very, very lost. Read at least the first few chapters of Feynite's Looking Glass and then some of the Baby!Lavellan AUs. Readers' choice, but my favorite, obviously, is the Mana'Din AU... and the Sharkbait AU... and Aili in several AUs... and.... Yeah, just check all of that out first. You can work your way back to this one. In a few months. Probably.
Otherwise, please, skip this series.





	1. Early Days with June

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Feynite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/gifts).



Grace is one of several gifts Sylaise presents to June. To help fill the areas where she finds her husband’s people lacking. Just as he gifts some of his craftsmen to her in return. The pleasure workers, tailors, artists and artisans of both interior and exterior (whose skills rest more on _arranging_ than building), for all these June has a clear use. And appreciation. The musicians, too, still find they serve a purpose in June’s lands. Their entertainment is not intrusive. Even if they are not lauded as highly here, June and his people appreciate their craft. Appreciate that they do not have to actually pause _creating_ in order to listen. Whereas they must stop for Grace and pay attention solely to her. That is her function. Sylaise made Grace to command attention and she does not have any other skills, other purposes. Grace is purely ornamental. She is frivolous. Useless. But something Sylaise feels June needs to have on hand, anyway, for Sylaise’s own entertainment when she visits. 

And June does seem appreciative of having something else to show off at important events, even if he’d rather the attention go to his works than a frivolity. A trinket.

It is a relief, in a way. To be largely ignored. But it is also very boring.

At first, Grace stays in the space allotted to her and practices her craft. She had forgotten how peaceful it could be, to simply move. Sylaise had her body crafted quiet carefully. Had only chosen Grace after great deliberation. Impressed upon her the honor of the choice and the body she was gifted. But Grace has not been free to simply enjoy it for some time. To pour all her skill and emotion into the dance and not fear whose attention she was attracting in the crowd. Or that one of the harsher instructors would find some fault. But then anxiety starts to set in. Because she has no instructor to find fault, to correct before accident can become habit and her purpose becomes flawed. Worthless in all respects.

Dancing stops being peaceful. 

Fret and Worry settle into the corners of the space Grace was given and no matter how Grace arranges and rearranges her furniture in both her living area and practice space, she can not get the little spirits to leave. And there is still boredom, more hours to the day than she can practice or organize her handful of possessions or try to shoo pesky little spirits away. This is not safe, is not healthy. 

Grace knows there is more to this city than her rooms and lack of duties. Here, in June’s lands, there have been few performances and only mild interest. It should be safe to go, explore. Sylaise made Grace to be appreciated, to be coveted. There were protections, of course (Sylaise was not cruel, quite the opposite, in fact. In comparison.). But never enough. There were loopholes, unwritten ways to make refusals too costly.

Grace is almost eager to explore (eager for something other than day after unchanging day). But Poise, Elegance, Agility, Posture, and Refinement are not here. And Grace does not know how to _dress_. 

She knows how she should appear, eye catching and a shining tribute to her enanuvis. But then she will draw attention and she will be alone. And... June does not seem to care. She has noticed that he allows his people more leeway with how they garb themselves. Only practical, Grace supposes, to allow things that can handle plaster or paint or soot or blood. As long as she does not do so when it matters, Grace suspects she could even wear something drab. If she wanted.

That feels wrong and Grace does not quiet like the though of _drab_ either.

She does not know what to do and that draws Fret and Worry to her. 

Worry starts sorting through her hangers and Grace can not muster the energy to try and stop the spirit. Besides, it is careful. It sets out the leggings Grace uses for practice, that she can move in. A light top with bare arms. But also a fluttery overcoat that will shield her figure even as it flows and swirls pleasingly. A belt to keep it out of the way. Heavy boots. Grace’s hair is short, to allow for elaborate headdresses, and Fret brings her little hoops for her ears that she can fiddle with, but no other jewels or bangles. 

“Thank you,” Grace says. She had not realized. That she had friends. Tears well in her eyes. She will not try to make them leave again, she thinks.

She picks up her shirt and it crumples as she balls it in her hands without meaning to. “ _Thank you._ ”


	2. the smith

Workshops are by far the most common buildings in June’s lands. Grace is surprised to find herself drawn to them. She always has been unbecomingly fascinated with practice yards and warriors. Deadly dances of blades and spellwork rather than fabric and light. But she has never before watched chisels and hammers with the same sort of recognition. 

Marble that is violently chipped away with confident hammer strikes into rough shapes that still need to be smoothed before the true beauty is revealed. The spin of hot glass bulging outward with nothing but breath, flame, and fast, steady hands. Tiny gears, so small they need a special combination of tools, layered one after another after another. Grace is enthralled.

She moves on whenever anyone looks at her in askance and it is almost like being a spirit again. Flitting about the world free and unbound, finding pieces of herself in others only to drift on again. Looking but not touching.

She is still lonely, but Fret and Worry are there when she returns home. 

That is nice.

And there are a few workshops to which Grace allows herself to return. A toy maker with tiny mechanical creatures. A wire wrapper. A glass blower who seems to specialize in flowers. Most surprising of all, a smith. A large elf who is more broad than tall. Muscled to an unfashionable degree. They use no tools, but shape shift their hands, sometimes their whole arms, and layer them with enough spells that they glow. Then they proceed to beat molten metal into shape, muscles bulging. Grace watches as they flatten out what seems to be sheets of building material. Day after day, with little variation, they make pieces of sheeting that pass into other hands for decoration. They are a puzzle, this smith who puts so much skill and effort into what is merely a building block to be sent to other crafters.

Sometimes Grace wonders why they have been given this task. But mostly she just watches in wonder. Muscles that flex. Sweat and fire. The whole body that twists to bring as much force as possible into each precise strike. Grace can feel the floor tremble when the hammer shaped hand connects. Just a little. Through the thick soles of her boots. There are other smiths, but Grace stands as quietly as she can and watches this one. Who uses so much grace that Grace wonders, as she did with the soldiers she used to watch, what if? What if things had been different? Could Grace have learned to do that, too?

* * *

At first Alasvar is annoyed to have another elf linger. To radiate smugness or sympathy as she watches their putative labor. They keep a tight lid on themselves. It will not do to let anyone spot their anger or annoyance or anything else that might be taken the wrong way. They are standing on thin enough ground as it is.

They know they should have stayed quiet.

But it could have been worse. And at least they are not hammering spirit shards into wind as if that were suitable building material. Someone else is, they know, but it is not them.

Their arm comes down with almost too much force and they have to flare the head of their hand before the strike lands, flattening yet another section of fencing. Falon’Din uses death as building material too. Easy, cheap power. Shoddy materials. Worse aesthetics, but still fundamentally unsound. Alasvar winces and tries to think of nothing else but the inconel alloy under their hands.

Builders should, first and foremost, think of their foundations.

Their watcher eventually leaves. It is not until she comes back, several days later, that Alasvar notices she, too, is keeping her emotions to herself. The pattern repeats and if June is having them spied on for suspected disloyalty, they would have expected more discretion. Or less bother. June’s creations always need power.

Months pass and the other still comes, sometime staying entire afternoons. They start to feel curious. “Can I help you?” they wonder, at last, to their watcher.

“Um.”

That is a no, then. Alasvar rolls their eyes and wonders how old she is. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Not really,” she admits.

“Huh.” Alasvar steps back from the anvil and sticks their hands in the water barrel. When the steam fades they grab one of their sketch books, which has seen far too little use as of late, and passes it to the elf. 

“What should I...?”

Alasvar shrugs, turning back to their work. “Draw something and I’ll tell you what you did wrong. Or find something I drew, then tell me what I did wrong. Then we argue about it until we’re ready to try to build it. Or you go find someone else to stare at.”

Disbelief and amazement slowly trickles into the air as she holds the sketch book with both hands and far too much respect for the work of a disgraced smith. Alasvar politely ignores the emotions. Fence sheeting is boring, anyway, and most of June’s people have hobby projects.


End file.
